My Father's Death

I held my Father as he died. His final gift wasn’t just goodbye; I discovered a peace I never expected.

This weekend, as I release this newsletter, I find myself in Mexico preparing for Día de los Muertos — the Day of the Dead — a beautiful celebration of life and remembrance for our loved ones who have passed.

The moment of my father’s passing in 2021 was one of the most profound experiences of my life.

In his final moments, I stared into Dad’s wonder-filled eyes and realised: death is not something to fear. It’s a threshold, a passage into a mystery far greater than we can comprehend.

Artwork by Oliver Barnett

Dad’s death, though heartbreaking, shifted something deep in me. I felt a calling to explore death more spiritually, not as something to avoid, but as a path to understanding life itself.

It became another stepping stone in the deepening of my purpose. I knew my work, and my life, needed to help others find peace with, and transform, the fear of death.

A Final Homecoming

It was early spring. My mother and I were helping my father out of an ambulance and into his home in Oxfordshire. He’d taken a fall a few days earlier and had just been released from hospital.

Parkinson’s disease had taken its toll. He was frail, skeletal, barely able to walk.

As we guided him up the short flight of stairs to the kitchen, Dad began to wobble. He was breathing in short, shallow gasps. At the top of the stairs, he suddenly lost all strength, collapsing in my arms.

Mum pulled over a chair, and I eased him down into it, holding him upright as he slumped further, lifeless, his body giving in.

His lips started turning blue.

But his eyes—his eyes were wide open.

Filled with something extraordinary.

Unblinking. Peaceful. As if beholding something amazing.

A Glimpse Beyond

I called his name. Shouted it. But his gaze was fixed on something far beyond me. In that moment, I knew he wasn’t gone. He was going. He was seeing something. Something I could not.

Following the instructions of the Emergency Responder on the phone, I lowered Dad to the floor and began CPR.

I pumped his chest for what felt like forever, nearly 40 minutes. It was one of the hardest physical things I have ever done.

Each compression became both an act of grief and a final act of love. A way of holding on while learning to let go.

I felt his ribs crack.

The softness of life giving way to the silence of death. Yet I kept going. I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop. The responder urging us to continue the compressions despite his crumbling rib cage.

Wave after wave of emotion hit me. Sorrow, yes. But also gratitude.

Because I knew, deep in my bones, that I was meant to be there. This was sacred work.

Eventually the paramedic team arrived and I stopped. Utterly exhausted.

I knew he was gone.

And still, there was peace.

The Gift of Grief

In those moments, I met grief in its rawest form.

A force as humbling and elemental as anything I’d ever encountered.

But in that moment, something poured in:

Reverence.

Clarity.

Love.

The Ongoing Presence

Today, I see Dad’s smiling face each morning.

I feel his love, his teachings, his rich spirit in the quiet moments of my life.

His death wasn’t just an end. It was an invitation, a doorway into deeper presence.

He gave me life once.

And through his death, he gave it again.

Thank you, Dad.

If this letter resonated, please tap the heart button, re-stack and share it with one friend. Every small gesture helps this work reach more people, and gives me the fuel to continue this work.

Live happy,

Hoppy

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News:

• We’ve started development on Reverstory, a revolutionary AI tool that helps you reverse-engineer your life, creating the ultimate vision board, so you can die with no regrets (and live with purpose along the way). The App will be available for Dying to Live with Purpose paying subscribers.

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Latest video: Conversations With Mortality ep. #2

Website: Here

Go deeper: My Story

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What people are saying about DTLWP: “You’re bang on, Hoppy. Death is so taboo in our culture. Loved the vid - you made it accessible, uplifting and thought provoking.” (Gemma)